


Asleep At The Traffic Light

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-04-21
Updated: 2001-04-21
Packaged: 2019-05-15 22:22:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14799083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: Dreams crumble if you let them





	Asleep At The Traffic Light

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

Asleep at the Traffic Light  
A 17 People Post-Ep

Jane Harper

Rating: G, believe it or not  
Synopsis: Dreams crumble if you let them.  
Archive: Sure. Let me know where. It'll already be at leo.net.  
Disclaimer: Not mine. None of 'em. No Sarah here. Tip o' the  
keyboard to Jackson Browne, The Pretender from the 1976 recording of the  
same name. Not gonna bore you with all the lyrics; if you're interested  
they're at the following URL:  
http://www.volleyball.org/taj/pretender.html

**Is this it? Is this where it ends? Have we done all this, worked  
these years, sacrificed our time and our energy and our relationships,  
to be brought down, caught in a self-serving lie, co-opted into valuing  
survival above principle? Is Toby right? Have we betrayed the very  
things that made us want to come here to begin with?**

Leo gave up the struggle for sleep, tossed the covers off, and got out  
of bed, putting on a robe out of habit, even though the apartment was  
empty and he was alone. He wandered into the home office where he spent  
most of his weekends and switched on his computer; while he was waiting,  
he flipped on the radio that sat on the bookshelf opposite his chair.   
As the system automatically booted up and logged him remotely into the  
server, he flipped through FM channels with the radio remote: classical  
(too quiet), opera (too shrill), then a young man's voice that niggled  
at the back of his memory.

Ah the laughter of the lovers  
As they run through the night  
Leaving nothing for the others  
But to choose off and fight  
And tear at the world with all their might  
While the ships bearing their dreams  
Sail out of sight

**Was that what happened? Have we lost what connection we had to what  
makes us human, to the love and laughter that gave us the courage to  
stand apart from the political lemmings headed for the cliff of  
expediency? When was the last time any of us laughed until we cried?   
Is that what happens when youth crumbles and we forget what passion is,  
when we stop striving and become content to run in place?**

He got up and went into the bathroom and threw on the light, looking at  
himself in the mirror. **God, you're getting old. You're pale, and  
sallow, and when did the corners of your mouth start to turn down?   
Where did those furrows in the brow come from? How long have they been  
there? When did they get deeper than the laugh lines around your  
eyes?** He reached up to scratch the side of his neck and caught the  
reflection of the back of his father's hand. **God, no. That's my  
hand. When did it start to look like his?**

Coming back out of the bath, his eyes fell on the valet next to the  
closet where he had put his clothes out for the morning. Regulation  
dark suit, figured tie, shirt with subtle stripes, all impeccably  
tailored: handmade, expensive, and dull. He threw open the closet door,  
turned on the light and walked in. **Where did all the colors go? Just  
last year I had a gorgeous blue shirt...** Brown shoes, black shoes,  
oxfords and loafers. **Where the hell are my tennies?** He scratched  
his head. **I can't even remember the last time I wore them. Or needed  
to. The only thing I have the time to exercise these days is my jaw...**.

He looked at his watch: four-thirty. Might as well give up the idea of  
sleeping. He threw off the robe and turned on the water in the shower,  
then stepped in and stood with his head bowed under the falling  
droplets, suddenly aware that some of the water on his face wasn't  
coming from the wall.

Are you there?  
Say a prayer for the Pretender  
Who started out so young and strong  
Only to surrender


End file.
